


Things to Learn

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cooking Lessons, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Aid, Fluff, Food, Friends to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, Injury, M/M, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10773123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: It becomes something of a tradition, their fireside chats.Most nights, Prompto will wander over to lean against the counter while Ignis prepares the evening meal. Most nights, they trade stories, and Prompto fishes out the cutlery and the plates for him when it's time to serve.There's been several weeks of this when Prompto says, "You know, I could help."





	Things to Learn

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon on the kink meme who wanted:
> 
> Prompto, in his own words, can't cook to save himself, so I'd like to see him learn (from Ignis ofc) since I think that of the three non-cooking bros he'd probably be the most willing? Just give me Prompto trying his absolute hardest and Ignis appreciating the genuine effort, even if his success rate is a little.. questionable at times. And maybe they start crushing on each other a little bit along the way, because I'm a sap and think they're super sweet together (though tbh I'd be happy even with just platonic bonding too)
> 
> Bonus if Prompto isn't actually as hopeless at it as he thinks he is - now that I think about it maybe he's only bad at it because he never had anyone to teach him in the first place, growing up alone and all.

Prompto likes to chat.

The topic doesn't seem to matter overmuch, Ignis notes. He's content to ramble on about the stock at the nearest gas station shop, or the filters he intends to use for his shots of the sunrise over the Duscaen arches, or how many ladies are likely to buy Gladio free drinks the next time they're in Lestallum.

None of that is especially surprising. Ignis has had a front row view of Prompto's friendship with Noctis, after all. He's seen the way the boy makes overtures toward people whose company he enjoys, awkward but earnest, as though he's not entirely certain what to do with the attention. Ignis strongly suspects that the tendency is born of an empty house and seemingly perpetually absent parents, details gleaned in passing, through overheard conversations with Noctis.

What is surprising, however, is when Prompto starts to chat with _him_.

The first night, Noctis has fallen asleep by the fire, curled up in the fine white down of his chocobo's feathers, and Gladio is buried in his newest book, lost to the world. Prompto is playing King's Knight; the music drifts, a bright, tinny fanfare on the breeze. Ignis' fingers are occupied with dinner, with the smooth motion of the knife, chopping vegetables into meticulously even segments.

Consequently, he misses when Prompto taps his phone off. He misses when the boy stands and circles over toward the travel cook station. It's only the tail end that he looks up in time to see: a moment's hesitation, toe dragging at the stone of the haven before Prompto leans his elbows on the counter.

"What's for dinner?" he asks.

"A new recipe," Ignis tells him absently, fingers not pausing in their work. "Dualhorn flank steak, cut thin with a soy marinade, if all goes to plan."

"Sounds awesome," says Prompto, earnestly, and for a moment, Ignis' eyes leave his work.

He's still not quite used to that: appreciation that's unthinkingly honest. He's spent his life cooking for members of the nobility, men and women for whom five-star chefs are the rule, rather than the exception. He's spent his life cooking for Noct, who's not at all shy when something doesn't fall within his narrow tastes.

Prompto, though. Their first night on the road, Prompto wandered near to snitch a spoonful of chilli while it was still cooking. Ignis had to shoo him away, starry-eyed and enthusiastic, to keep him from eating the lot straight from the pan.

Ignis takes in his face now: the guileless smile, the interest in the way Ignis works the knife against the cutting board. He stifles a smile of his own. "With any luck," he says.

He expects that will be all. He expects that Prompto will wander off to entertain himself. Instead, the boy taps the toe of one worn boot against the stone ground. He says, "Remember that frog lady?"

"Sania Yeagre," Ignis prompts, mildly amused, "world-renowned biologist?"

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Her."

And he launches into a lengthy, only tangentially related tale about the biology teacher he and Noct shared in tenth grade, a rather more unfortunate frog, and a dissection gone terribly, terribly wrong.

He's a lively conversationalist, Ignis finds. His pacing is awkward at first, start and go; he keeps pausing and eyeing his audience, gauging something Ignis is unsure of. But as he warms to the topic and Ignis begins to put in small hums of approval or expressions of interest, he grows ever more enthusiastic.

Dinner is ready in what seems like no time at all.

And while Ignis arranges the meat on a bed of lettuce, Prompto snakes one hand out to steal a morsel.

"Oh, man, Iggy," he says, and his grin is easy and uncomplicated. "This one's a keeper for sure."

 

* * *

 

It becomes something of a tradition, their fireside chats.

Most nights, Prompto will wander over to lean against the counter while Ignis prepares the evening meal. Most nights, they trade stories, and Prompto fishes out the cutlery and the plates for him when it's time to serve.

There's been several weeks of this when Prompto says, "You know, I could help."

From his spot by the fire, Noct snorts a laugh. "Don't fall for it, Specs."

Prompto's face has gone an interesting shade of crimson. It all but swallows up his freckles, Ignis finds.

Prompto says, "Dude, not cool. That was one time."

"One time?" Gladio puts in, eyebrow raised.

"I didn't actually burn the kitchen down," says Prompto. "Nothing caught fire."

"Except the cake," Noctis counters, wry and amused.

"Why don't you fix us a side salad?" Ignis cuts in smoothly. Even if the boy is hapless in the kitchen, as this alluded-to cake disaster implies, surely something like salad, cold and simple, should prove a manageable task.

Prompto's mouth is open to reply to Noctis, but he cuts himself off at that, brightening visibly. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. I can do that!"

"Not every meal needs veggies, guys," says Noct, pitifully, from the fireside.

But Gladio reaches over to prod him ungently in the ribs. "Sounds like the princess here wants extra lettuce."

Their bickering is a background chorus as Prompto sets about washing the ingredients and Ignis turns his attention back to the task before him. He's aware, peripherally, of gloved hands working beside his own. He's aware that Prompto is carefully plating his creation and arranging the bowls. Then Prompto says, "There. How's that?"

It is, quite frankly, the most ridiculous salad Ignis has ever seen. Each bowl contains approximately five whole leafs of lettuce and a single whole tomato. The vegetables are undressed, still glistening wetly from their wash.

Something of Ignis' dismay must show in his face, because Prompto's eyes take his expression in and then dart away again. "It, uh," he says. "It's not fancy. I mean, it's just how I used to make them at home."

That particular sentence brings with it an unexpectedly vivid mental image: Prompto, circa early high school, alone in the kitchen and fumbling to make something edible. Prompto at an empty table, in his house perpetually devoid of parents, sitting down to eat his creation.

Ah, thinks Ignis, as the pieces slide neatly into place.

But all he says is, "Hmm." And then, after a beat: "Would you like a few pointers?"

Prompto's eyes come up again, and his expression is hard to decipher. "Yeah," he says. "Pointers are good. If you don't think I'm a lost cause."

"Not a lost cause," Ignis corrects, with the hint of a smile. "Just in need of a bit of instruction."

There is a type of person who will chafe under tutelage. Ignis has known them before: proud sorts, and stubborn, who never seem to think they have anything left to learn. Prompto is not that sort.

When Ignis says, "Tear the lettuce into smaller pieces," he nods and sets to work right away, clumsy but determined.

"After that," Ignis says, "Perhaps a simple vinaigrette, to finish it off. I believe we have the ingredients on hand."

They do. Prompto mixes them, diligent and eager to please: white wine vinegar and fresh-squeezed orange juice, shallot and lemon zest and salt and pepper.

All in all, it's a very passable salad. When Ignis tells him so, Prompto's smile is like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud.

 

* * *

 

Ignis is in the middle of battering a delicate skewer of mushrooms when Prompto's voice reaches him.

"Uh," he says. "Iggy? Hey, uh. Uhm."

His voice is pitched half an octave higher than its usual mellow tenor, and creeping steadily upward. It's a tone that generally indicates the bottom of a mine shaft beset with daemons. Seeing as they're standing above a caravan stove, Ignis turns to see what the matter might be.

The matter, it would seem, is the dipping sauce for the mushrooms. The bottom of the pan has gone black, the cream sticking to the sides; the top bubbles and churns.

"I, uh," says Prompto. "I think I had the heat too high."

"Indeed," says Ignis. "Take it off the burner, for now."

Prompto does, and shuts the stove off, and he stands there, hovering, as though a burnt sauce heralds the end of the world.

"Now," says Ignis, and goes back to dipping the mushrooms. "Fetch a new pot. Transfer what you can from the old one to the new, but leave the burnt bits on the bottom."

There's a moment of silence. At last, Prompto says. "Okay. Done."

Ignis nods approval. "We have Leiden potatoes in the pack nearest the door. Cut a slice from one of them and put it in the new sauce."

While Prompto bustles about the kitchen behind him, Ignis finishes the last of the mushrooms.

"Ready," says Prompto.

"Splendid," says Ignis. "Now, let it sit for awhile. The potato will absorb the burnt flavor, and we'll have our sauce yet."

When he turns toward the stove to put the mushrooms in the skillet, he discovers Prompto watching him with a wry, fond sort of expression. "Master chef Ignis to the rescue," he says, without a hint of irony.

"Yes, well," says Ignis, and sets the pan on the stovetop. "Let's just say that my earliest ventures into the culinary realm often required a last-minute save."

"You?" Prompto says, tone dubious.

Ignis smiles, and turns the burner's dial until it clicks and the flame rushes to life. "We all begin somewhere," he says.

 

* * *

 

Prompto breaks the egg yolks when he attempts to fry them over-easy. He underbakes a cake. He chars a perfectly good garula chop, and he struggles through deboning fish, and he's not terribly fast at dicing onions.

But he gets better, every time he tries. He never flubs a recipe the same way twice.

And the night when Ignis walks him through the curry he enjoys so much, Ignis would be hard-pressed to tell the final result from his own.

 

* * *

 

The door clicks open, and Ignis lifts his head on instinct, angling it toward the sound.

Nothing greets his eyes, of course. However much he claims that he holds out hope of recovery, he suspects those days are long in the past.

The footsteps that reach his ears are tentative, uncertain things. They do not have the click of courtly heels, but rather the clomp of well-worn boots. Much as he might wish he didn't have to, Ignis is learning already. 

"Good evening, Prompto," he says.

"Hey," says Prompto.

There's a moment's pause, and then a shuffle of motion. Something bumps Ignis' knee and stays there, and it takes him a moment to realize that Prompto has seated himself in the next chair over. It's his knee that Ignis feels, pressed against his own, and he can picture it suddenly: that casual, open-legged posture from nights around the campfire.

The contact is grounding, somehow. It provides a cue, in his world without sight, as to exactly where his companion is.

Ignis wonders if it's intentional.

"How's he doing?" says Prompto.

There's little doubt as to who he is. For whole hours, Ignis has been fixated upon the rasp of Noct's breathing as he lies comatose in a borrowed bed.

"Much the same," says Ignis.

There's a longer pause. "How bout you?" says Prompto.

Ignis can feel a smile try to tug at his lips, wry and bitter. "Likewise."

Silence swallows them up. The knee against his own shifts slightly and then returns, and Ignis knows Prompto well enough to read the motion as fidgeting.

At last, Prompto speaks again: "I know you want to stay with him. But if you're not gonna go get some sleep, you should at least try and eat."

Something presses at the top of Ignis' hands. He turns them palm-up to explore the shape of it, smooth and flat, and discovers a plate resting on the surface.

Questing fingers find what it holds: the crisp, brittle edges of toast, slightly greasy with butter. Something more substantial rests between the bread, alongside the supple flex of lettuce. A sandwich of some sort.

Ignis takes the tray.

"My thanks," he says, and means it. Much as the world has moved on, much as he has been irrevocably changed by it, he will not serve his king by allowing himself to waste away. It is a valuable reminder.

He bites into the sandwich: fillet of grouper, breaded and fried, on lightly buttered toast with bitter greens. The toast has gone soggy, the butter applied too soon; the grouper is slightly overdone. Both are inconceivable flaws, coming out of the high-class kitchen of a manor like this one.

But the most telling sign of all is that Ignis recognizes the spice blend. It is the particular combination he uses in the batter for the fried garula sandwich Noct prizes so highly. It works well with fish, tangy and sharp, and suddenly Ignis can picture it: Prompto, awkward and uncomfortable, charming his way with a sheepish smile into an unfamiliar kitchen. Prompto watching the pan, anxious, to be certain he times it correctly. Prompto distracted by the toast for just long enough for the fish to overcook.

Ignis swallows the bite of sandwich. It's more difficult than he anticipates; there is a sudden ache in his throat. For the first time, it occurs to him that their lessons around the campfire are gone for good, dashed away in an instant along with so much else.

Perhaps his face gives him away, for after a moment, Prompto's hand clasps his shoulder, the touch brief and reassuring.

"No problem, Iggy," he says. "Anything you need."

 

* * *

 

Gralea is the sterile tap of boots on tile. It is the echo of voices in corridors long disused, the thick scent of dust, and the distant chittering of daemons.

It is sitting on the floor of the chamber that holds the Crystal, the cold soaking through his trousers to his thighs, fingers clenched so tightly along the hilt of his cane that they burn from the unrelenting pressure.

It is Gladio's restless energy, rage barely contained as he paces the length of the walkway like a caged coeurl. It is Prompto's subdued silence, withdrawn and wounded. It is waiting, tense and hopeful, as Noctis doesn't return.

There is no way to gauge the passage of time, in the Crystal's chamber. There is no reliable way to say for certain whether they have been here for hours or days.

But the moments draw onward, one after the next; Ignis feels it in the ache of his body, too long immobile. He dozes, perhaps, for when he wakes, Gladio has settled, and the slow, even pull of Prompto's breathing is in a different location.

At long last, some interminable time later, Gladio says, "Prompto, you're up. Keep watch." He takes a few steps nearer the Crystal and settles; at length, his breathing grows long and even, fading out to snores.

Ignis sleeps again, safe in the knowledge that a watch will be kept. It has been a long several days, trapped in this maze, and exhaustion pulls at him like a blanket of lead around his shoulders.

When he wakes again, the air has grown chill. Late night? Early morning? It's difficult to say.

Gladio's snores still reverberate through the chamber, like the growls of some strange and threatening creature.

No sooner than Ignis has roused himself, rubbing cautiously at his eyes behind the glasses, than a voice reaches his ears. It's Prompto, tone pitched low to avoid waking their companion. "Hey, Iggy?" he says, and then he falters out, like an engine coaxed to partial life before guttering back to stillness.

"Yes?" says Ignis.

There is a shift of fabric, and then another: Prompto is fidgeting.

"Noct, uh. Noct didn't have all the food. Did he?"

It is not what Ignis expects. He blinks a single, sightless eye as he considers the question. Noct has most of their ingredients in the Armiger, it's true. There, bread will never grow stale; meat stays fresh in perpetuity. Without Noctis, it's beyond their reach.

"Most, I'm afraid," he says.

"Right," says Prompto. "Gotcha."

There is another silence, longer this time. At last, cautiously, Prompto says: "Only most?"

Perhaps it is the tone that finally prods Ignis into awareness. It is an odd inflection for Prompto, almost fragile.

All at once, Ignis recalls with a jolt of guilt that it's been near a week since Prompto fell from the train. Of the boy's captivity, Ignis knows little: only the brush of his fingers across the steel bars of a cell door and the soft, pained noise Prompto made when released from whatever device held him restrained. 

There is no saying how long it's been since his last meal. Ardyn has proven himself anything but kind.

"Yes," says Ignis. "I believe I've some travel rations. A moment, if you would."

While Ignis searches his pack by touch alone, a shuffle of fabric and a scuff of boots tells him Prompto has come nearer. The sound he makes when he swallows seems painfully loud.

Of their emergency rations, not much remain: a packet of jerky, a handful of breakfast bars, and a tin of luncheon meat. He selects one of the snack bars, granola hard against his fingers through the wrapper, and holds it out.

Prompto's fumbled it from his grasp in all of two seconds. In the instant their fingers brush, Ignis can feel that he's trembling.

The wrapper crinkles, crisp and distinct; he can hear the crunch when Prompto bites into it, and then another, just after, presumably as he crams more into his mouth.

"Pace yourself," Ignis advises him, gently.

"Yeah," Prompto mumbles, mouth still full. "Sure." But he swallows, and the crunch of granola comes again, and Ignis does not have the heart to force the issue.

 

* * *

 

Ignis can cross his new apartment in six full strides. It holds a twin-sized bed in one corner, and a small desk, and a counter with a hot plate. There is a single communal bathroom down the hall, shared with the other units on his floor.

He's lucky to have it.

With the influx of refugees into Lestallum, having been granted a private space at all is a luxury. It is a means of thanks, he suspects, from the women at the power plant. They've asked Ignis to stay on in the hopes that he can assist in managing the logistics of a city swollen to the bursting point. 

He's acquiesced, reluctantly. After years of fighting an endless war against daemons that keep coming, he is willing to admit that however much his combat skills may have recovered, perhaps he'll do more good in a different capacity.

This new work brings him one unsolvable problem after the next: how to feed a populace when crops won't grow in the perpetual dark, and how to house the ever-arriving multitudes that fill the city streets. Most days, he finds himself nursing a headache by early afternoon. Most days, he is entirely too busy to fret over Gladio and Prompto, each on their own out in the well of darkness the world has become.

The distraction serves him well.

Ignis has just begun to consider architectural adjustments to existing buildings as a possible overpopulation solution when the sound of footsteps reach his ears. They're boots on wood, a spring in the step, and they stop outside his door. Prompto says, "Knock, knock," in that peculiar way of his, without actually knocking.

Ignis feels a smile tugging at his lips. It lightens the crease between his brow, and some of the tension slips away from where he carries it, wound tight and ungiving, in his jaw.

"You do have a key," says Ignis.

"Well, yeah," says Prompto, and he hears the faint scratching as said key slides into the lock. "But what if you're changing or something?"

"Your poor innocent eyes," Ignis intones, drily, just as Prompto wrestles the door open.

Prompto's voice is closer when he speaks, this time, unmuffled by an intervening wall. "Aww, Iggy," he says, the door clicking closed behind him. "I'm just looking out for your virtue."

"My virtue," Ignis says, amused.

"Sure," says Prompto. "You've got a reputation to keep, right? Advisor to the king, savior to Lestallum's planning division." The words are teasing, the tone warm. His sentences roll together, trippingly, as though excitement pulls them forward. It puts Ignis in mind of their first visit to the chocobo ranch so many years past, Prompto practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"You're in fine form today," says Ignis.

"I brought you something," says Prompto. "You ready for this?"

Ignis, bemused, holds a hand out.

"You're gonna need two," says Prompto, gleeful, so Ignis offers the other.

The object is heavy, vaguely cube-shaped, approximately the size of his head. It's wood and metal, and there are raised circles set into the panelled sides. The construction is excellent: high-quality craftsmanship. Ignis traces his fingers over the length of it, wondering, until finally the solution clicks into place.

"A spice rack?" says Ignis. "Where did you ever –?"

"No, wait," says Prompto. "Hold up, that's not even the best part."

He lifts the rack from Ignis' arms, and the muffled thump of wood on wood reaches his ears as Prompto sets it on the desk. A moment later, something smaller is pressed into his hands: a cylindrical glass container.

Prompto takes Ignis by the hand, touch warm and open. He unfolds one of Ignis' fingers and runs it gently across the lid, where there's a distinct notch. "This one's salt," says Prompto. 

He takes it back and replaces it with another, the lid set with two notches. "Pepper." Three notches. "Basil."

He goes through the set, all twenty of them: cumin and corriander, cinnamon and clove. They've been marked for him, every one of them. They're full, too; he can hear the spices rattling in the glass confines, a miracle and a half in this world where nothing grows.

Ignis has vague recollections of complaining, a year or so past, about relearning to cook in a world so scant on ingredients. He'd remarked at the time that he'd trade his best set of daggers for a jar of bay leaves. 

And here they are. The bay leaves, and so much else besides.

"I don't know what to say," says Ignis. 

"Well that's easy," Prompto tells him, and slides the final spice container back into its place. "Say you'll use them."

"I don't know what _else_ to say," Ignis amends, and the laugh he gets in return, bright and uncomplicated, reminds him of chats by the fireside, now years in the past.

 

* * *

 

Ignis knows that something's amiss the moment Prompto opens the door.

The footsteps are off-center, a lopsided drag and pull. There's a smell about him, too: the heavy cling of road dust and something beneath, sharp and metallic.

"You're injured," Ignis says, even before Prompto comes to a rest, leaning against the wall. He's certainly not standing upright; there's a restless sort of shuffle to be expected when Prompto's on his feet, but that perpetual background noise is absent.

"Nothing too bad," Prompto says, but his tone belies that claim. It's a weary sort of tone, pinched, with a layer of strain at the edges.

"I'll be the judge of that," Ignis tells him. He's seated at the desk, his habitual spot while he works; though he no longer keeps notes, memories of long hours spent drafting reports keeps him harnessed to routine. He stands now, and circles around toward Prompto. "Kindly take a seat."

Prompto knows better than to argue. He eases into the chair that Ignis has vacated. "It's just my leg," he says. "Mostly."

The mostly gives Ignis pause. Had they curatives to spare, he'd have insisted Prompto use one already. With Noct still missing, however, and his magic the only means of creating more, potions have become rather more precious. They're reserved for situations of life and death, of late.

"Left or right?" Ignis asks, and reaches out to touch. His fingers find Prompto's thigh, warm through his jeans. It twitches slightly at the contact, and as Ignis traces downward, searching out the length of it, Prompto says, "That one. By the knee." His voice has gone strangely tight, oddly strangled.

It's a poor sign. When Ignis reaches the knee and finds that Prompto's pants have been thoroughly shredded, it's another. His touch discovers scraps of denim, stiff with dried blood, and below that the sloppy folds of a poorly-administered bandage.

"You cleaned it, I trust?" says Ignis.

There's the whisper of fabric shifting: Prompto fidgeting. "I was kinda busy at the time."

"Well," says Ignis, and draws back. "You know where the bathroom is. Wash up, and clean it thoroughly, and I'll see to a fresh bandage."

Prompto slinks away with a nervous laugh, as though he's a scolded child. Ignis sends him on his way with a bar of soap, a clean towel, and a borrowed pair of pants.

While he avails himself of the shower, Ignis fetches a trio of daggerquill eggs from the shelf that serves as his pantry. He manages a loose scramble, passable and easy to attain, and works in a dash of salt and a pinch of sage. A sizzling drop of water on the metal tells him when the pan is hot enough; the scent, rich and savory, informs him when the eggs are done.

He's just slid the resulting creation onto a plate when the door creaks open again. "Oh gods," says Prompto, voice all earnest appreciation. "That smells amazing. You're gonna share, right?"

"I've eaten," Ignis says, with a hint of a smile. "But first, seat yourself, if you would."

Prompto returns to the desk chair, footsteps light this time: the pad of bare feet, rather than the sturdy clomp of boots. He makes a small sound as he eases himself into it, a long indrawn breath.

Ignis kneels, fingers of one hand closed around the cloth of a bandage. The other searches out Prompto's thigh. The fabric of his own pants is fine and clean; it doesn't cling quite so tightly as Prompto's jeans.

And yet. "How precisely do you recommend I bandage a knee through these?"

"Uh," says Prompto. "You're a smart guy. You'll figure it out."

Ignis suppresses a sigh. "I suspect any reasonable solution will involve you taking them down."

There's a beat too long before the reply. "Yeah," says Prompto, voice strangely high-pitched. "Yeah, sure."

He stands; there is a rustle, and a zip, and some rather undignified noises as Prompto attempts to divest himself of the pants without further irritating his leg. Then he sinks back into the chair.

"Ready," says Prompto. "Have at it, Iggy."

He starts at the thigh, now smooth and bare of fabric, finding his way down to the curve of Prompto's knee. At once, he knows the damage is far greater than Prompto has attempted to claim. At once, he can feel that the skin beneath his fingers is hot and swollen. 

His touch traces against the skin, tentative and searching, intent upon finding the wound. And Prompto hisses in a sharp breath and says, "There, ow, okay, there." He takes Ignis' hand and unfolds the index finger. He touches a point just above the knee, and then he touches a place that feels approximately mid-calf. "Just cover it all up, okay?"

And Ignis, trying his utmost not to imagine a wound of that size, fully a foot and a half in length, says faintly, "Indeed."

He reaches for the hydrogen peroxide, hears Prompto make a displeased sound, somewhere low in his throat. "Aw, c'mon," he says. "I washed it! We don't need that stuff."

But if it's gone uncleaned for days, it very much does. They may well end up needing a potion, after all, if it's been left to sit that long. "It will just be a moment," says Ignis, and pours.

Prompto yelps and jerks; Ignis applies pressure to his thigh to keep him still. The air fills with the sharp, astringent scent of the peroxide. "What'd I ever do to you?" Prompto says, in the most wounded voice he can muster.

Ignis feels a smile tugging at his lips, fond and exasperated. "Failed to tend your wounds when you received them, for a start."

He pats the afflicted area dry with a clean, soft cloth. Then he affixes the bandage on touch alone, the fold and wrap a product of muscle memory more than anything else, dating back to when he was perhaps twelve years of age, drilling on worst case scenarios and how he might best aid his prince.

When he's done, Prompto leans forward, a breath of air and the sudden proximity of the lavender in the soap he's borrowed. Peering at the bandage, most likely. 

"You're really good at that," says Prompto. "Thanks."

Ignis's mouth curls up at the edges. "Not at all," he says. "Now, do you plan to eat your eggs, or are you waiting for them to grow cold?"

 

* * *

 

Prompto stays the night when he's in the city, once or twice a month.

It only makes sense; it's eminently reasonable, given how hard finding space is in the overcrowded streets.

He claims a blanket and takes up most of the available floor space, and he wakes in the night gasping from nightmares that Ignis pretends not to hear. In the morning, or what passes for morning in this world without a sun, he pokes through the corner that serves as Ignis' kitchen to make breakfast.

He's here today, humming to himself over the hotplate. It seems an upbeat sort of a tune, perhaps a pop song, but either Ignis doesn't know it, or Prompto has forgotten most of the melody. It's been a terribly long time since last either of them has found a battery for the radio.

When Prompto finishes, he makes his way over to where Ignis is seated on the mattress and says, "Ta da!" 

Ignis feels the plate nudge against the side of his hand. "What's on today's menu?" he asks, as he takes it.

Prompto presses the fork against his other palm and says, "Mystery fish omelette."

"Cod," Ignis corrects, idly, and stifles a smile. The smell is a certain giveaway, mild and buttery. Besides, Ignis knows what's available in his kitchen, and it isn't much.

He searches out the edge of the omelette with his fork, cuts a piece and chews thoughtfully. It's an interesting combination, certainly not one he would have considered. The omelette itself is thin, almost crepe-like; the fish that fills it has been deboned, flaked, and seasoned. It's topped with a sort of salsa from the peppers grown in Lestallum's new artificial-light greenhouse, and they give the dish something of a kick. It's remarkably good.

It's not until he's swallowed that he realizes how quiet Prompto has become. 

"You've definitely improved," Ignis says, warmly, and he can hear the rush of air as Prompto releases the breath he's been holding.

"Don't scare me like that," says Prompto, and eases himself down on the bed beside Ignis to eat his own breakfast.

Most mornings, Prompto bids Ignis a bright farewell by midday before venturing out to face whatever awaits him in the world beyond the safety of Lestallum's light.

Not today. Today he lingers long after breakfast is finished and the dishes washed, making idle conversation. It is remarkably near to those late-night chats they used to share by the campfire. Ignis can imagine that same gauging expression on Prompto's face, and remembers, with unexpected nostalgia, the way he used to lean against the cook station, all restless energy.

Prompto's just finishing up a decidedly meandering tale: a pack of bussemands who dared to steal Cindy's toolkit from Hammerhead. He's still a lively conversationalist, after all this time. Even life or death situations, somehow, come across with the engaging pace and brash high spirits of an adventure story for children.

"I've missed this," says Ignis, apropos of nothing, when Prompto's finished speaking.

He's not entirely sure what response he expects. Most likely that Prompto will offer a sheepish laugh and brush aside the remark, as he tends to do with anything that might be construed as a compliment.

But Prompto only says, "Iggy," and then falters to a stop.

Ignis tips his head to one side. "Yes?"

The silence is all-consuming. Beneath its vast umbrella, he can hear Prompto swallow. "Me, too."

A touch brushes at the back of Ignis' hand. It's tentative and warm: Prompto's fingers. They close there and squeeze, cautiously.

Ignis turns his hand over, so that the palm is pressed to Prompto's, and they remain that way, seated side by side, for a long time.

At last, tentatively, Prompto speaks again. "Hey," he says. "So. I'm gonna do something dumb. Okay?"

Ignis turns toward him, to ask what he means, but before he's managed to form the question, Prompto answers by action rather than word.

His lips are chapped and dry, remarkably gentle. They press a chaste hint of a kiss to the corner of Ignis' mouth, linger for just a second or two, and then withdraw.

In the monumental quiet of the next several moments, Ignis' mind is utterly blank, rational thought decimated by the force of his astonishment. 

He's never suspected. 

Considered, true, but that is another matter entirely. Consideration is something for mulling over possibilities that are idle fancies at best and childish wastes of time, at worst. Consideration is a safe alternative to acting, when duty confines the path a life might take. Consideration is a last resort for when one's charming companion, whom one happens to be considering, tends to ramble on at some great length about young ladies who have caught his eye.

For the first time, it occurs to Ignis that perhaps these rambling stories of Prompto's are rather more curtailed than he might have suspected. Perhaps there are young men, equally attractive, who have by design never appeared in the narrative.

He takes this all in, in great detail, in the time it takes Prompto to pull away. The shift of fabric reaches his ears: the telltale sign of fidgeting.

"Like I said," says Prompto, rushed and slightly breathless. "Dumb, right?" He pauses a beat, as though searching for a reply. When none comes he says, "You know what? Let's pretend that never happened."

"Prompto," says Ignis.

"I don't know what I was thinking." There is a creak of the mattress, as Prompto moves to rise. "I mean, I guess I _wasn't_ thinking."

"Prompto," says Ignis. He catches at Prompto's hand as he moves to pull away and feels the muscles tense under the skin, as though braced for combat.

"Yeah?" says Prompto, wary.

"Hush," says Ignis. Then he tugs Prompto forward until their lips meet again.

 

* * *

 

Prompto makes it a point to venture by Lestallum more often, after that.

They see each other more in the next four years than they have in the previous six.

Then finally, it comes: the night they've all been waiting for.

On the evening they camp together for the final time, Ignis pounds four garula cutlets flat with a rolling pin. He coats them in egg, and then in breadcrumbs, and he fries them to create the diner-style sandwiches Noct so adores.

He stands at his cook station and listens to the crackle of the fire, and Prompto stands beside him, slicing up potatoes for the fries.

 

* * *

 

Ignis hears the creak of hinges, first; then the bell jingles, bright and cheery.

Prompto's voice reaches him in the kitchen. "Uh, nope, sorry, not open yet. Come back in two hours though, yeah? We're worth waiting for."

Ignis can just hear the resulting laugh: an older woman by the sound of it, voice creaky with age. Then the bell jingles again, and the door clicks closed, and upbeat footsteps on the tile floor begin their path his way.

"Hey, Iggy," says Prompto. "No strawberries. They were looking kinda sickly, so I picked up blackberries instead. Think that's a deal-breaker?"

Ignis is midway through the fifth turn for the puff pastries. The dough is cool and firm, the flour pleasing beneath the pads of his fingers. He hums thoughtfully, in consideration. "Our regulars will just have to adjust, I suppose."

Prompto laughs quietly, a low breath of air near Ignis' ear, and then warm lips press a quick kiss to his cheekbone. "That's what I figured."

Ignis scrapes the dough up, folds it, and begins the sixth turn. Behind him, paper rustles: the grocery bag, doubtless, as Prompto putters about and puts their day's supplies away. He hears the refrigerator door open and then close again, punctuated by the hum of the electric appliance. The power's been on for some two years in Insomnia, now, but Ignis still has moments, standing in the kitchen of his own café, the sunlight warm on his face, when he can't quite convince himself that this isn't some elaborate dream.

"I ran into Iris," says Prompto, as he wanders toward the sink. "She says Gladio's in town. Wanna try and rope him into stopping by for dinner?"

Ignis smiles, hands preoccupied with the dough. "If you're volunteering to do the roping. That man is slippery as an eel."

The sink comes on, a sudden rush of water, and Prompto works the hand soap: three quick clicks. "Oh, I got this," says Prompto, easily enough. "I got a secret weapon."

"Do you, indeed?" says Ignis. He feels along the counter for the narrow box that holds the plastic wrap, and tears off a piece large enough to hold the dough.

The sink turns off again, and footsteps wander to the door, where they keep the aprons on a duo of hooks. "Sure," says Prompto. "Iris says she'll help, so long's she's invited and we bring pie."

Ignis huffs laughter, fond and amused, hands busy at work wrapping the dough. "I suppose we'd best set something aside for her, then. Coconut cream, wasn't it?"

"Uh huh," says Prompto. "I'll grab one when they're out of the oven." There's the soft rustle of fabric as Prompto pulls his apron on, and then footsteps are drawing near again. "All ready, by the way," says Prompto, directly beside him. "What do we still need?"

Ignis considers a moment. The pies are baking, already, as are the cakes. The puff pastry will need awhile yet in the fridge. "See to the cinnamon buns?"

"On it," says Prompto, and ventures off to fetch the cinnamon.

These are his favorite hours of the morning, Ignis finds.

The sun streams into the kitchen through what Prompto assures him is a very nice window that most decidedly doesn't have chocobo-print curtains on it. The whole world is peaceful, nothing but the sounds of their voices and the tap of Prompto's boots on the tile while he leans against the counter to work the dough.

In two hours, Ignis will go to the front of the café and open the doors to the waiting public, inviting in the pleasant chaos of a self-run business.

But for now, just for a while, they cook and they chat, and Ignis lets himself be swept away with the warmth of the day and the lively, charming voice of the man beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> As a random aside, Prompto got the spice rack from Galdin Quay.
> 
> If you check out the background during World of Ruin, you can see Coctura's chef's uniform lying empty on the ground. I strongly suspect she's turned into a daemon and is one of the tonberries you fight in the area. Anyway, she definitely doesn't need her spices anymore, and it would be a high-class spice rack in an area too overrun by daemons to've been scavenged much. So basically, Prompto took a dumb risk and waded into the proverbial snake pit, then ran like hell. He is full of terrible ideas. :)


End file.
